all wrapped up
by crispycrumblycrust
Summary: when in doubt, blame the clothing


_Isaac, what is an Isaac, I don't know any Isaac._

* * *

He asked himself yet again, weren't people high up in the North used to far colder temperatures than an average winter evening?

But no, of course the man was the exception – when was he not.

Heavy overcoat over the suit, shawl hanging on his neck and gloves held between hand and briefcase.

The only thing missing was a waistcoat – a fickle thing, but that _did_ things to him.

He stopped and watched as he closed the door and locked his office. He turned, back straight and met his gaze.

He was challenging him, he just knew it. If it was anyone else, they would add a wink and a kissy face.

As if nothing was wrong, he walked right past him. It was difficult not to imagine himself undressing him slowly, step by step, as if nudging open a box and finding a smaller box in yet another box.

He couldn't help it, he looked really, really well, almost casual if he didn't know better. He wondered if he knew just how sexy and enticing he looked.

Great, now he couldn't get it out of his head and he glared at his retreating back.

He was certain he _knew_ when they met downstairs and he hadn't changed anything at all about his appearance.

Damn it.

* * *

It was too late to pull his jacket out from his backpack. He should had known better by now.

He frowned at him as he stopped beside him, that intricate mind likely already formulating far too many ways to voice his disapproval.

But unlike s _ome_ , he didn't have a salary that many would kill for, and really a little bit of chilliness wouldn't hurt anyone. Besides, t-shirts were so versatile, you could combine it with everything.

A shirt, though... He was already shivering thinking about the precise instructions to wash and handle it to prolong the life span. Not to mention the ironing, though he supposed _some_ loved to do that.

His frown deepened, likely thinking he was shivering from the cold. He ignored him and willed the elevator to be quicker and save him. Perhaps he should had taken the stairs. He would be up by now with no interruptions or judging eyes.

He grabbed the straps resting on his shoulders, hoisted his backpack a bit up as glanced down.

His suitcase always looked so empty, he wondered if there was even something in it.

The doors finally opened and he stepped in first – he would never win against chivalry. His shift hadn't even begun and he already felt like he had just done a double one.

His arm brushed his as he joined him and he shivered again. Judging by the almost invisible smirk he was aware this time it wasn't from the cold.

He stabbed particularly hard at the 'five' and forced himself not to do anything stupid.

As he watched the numbers slowly climbing, he vowed to himself this. Next time he had a free day, he would go out shopping, no matter how much he always hated it – it was worse than doing the dishes or collecting the dirty clothes and throwing them in the washing machine. He would buy a sweater, and perhaps some long shirts that wouldn't wrinkle.

It was worth the double take when he arrived the next shift with a brand new jacket – though by now his bank account was groaning and nearing red.

He smirked. 1-1.

* * *

Of course the victory was only temporary.

An emergency of some sort – when was there not? Mr Griffin was in theatre, by now likely elbow deep in his patient. The other consultant took her registrar with her and both remained AWOL, so he was technically in charge of the ward.

He may had climbed one step higher, but it were moments like this he was almost happy he was still in training.

Normally he could handle this – pagers were wonderful inventions and the nurses helped immensely. But then he appeared, out of nowhere it seemed, and everything changed.

The ward bustled with nurses and the patient wriggled and shouted. And amidst that all was _him_ shrugging off his jacket and laying it aside, fingers deftly rolling up the sleeves, taking control and being the centre of perfection and calm – and oh my gosh he was wearing a waistcoat today, why today of all days.

He almost lost it when a nurse passed him a pair of gloves and he pulled them on, letting the ends snap against his wrists and how these bespectacled eyes focused on the patient now that barely even noticed their surroundings, fighting for their lives – such a shame, he _almost_ felt jealousy there.

As expected, under his leadership, the ward quickly returned to normal. He did nothing to contribute, lost in the sight he was, mind picturing other scenes, and surely this night would be difficult to find any rest without some sort of release.

Mr Griffin returned an hour or so later and told him he did a good job.

He would never understand the man that had as many layers of clothes as mysteries. But he was likely rubbing it in. And having a private laugh about it too.

God damn it.

* * *

One could say a lot of things about scrubs. Horrible for the figure, thin material even for his standards sometimes, and it didn't feel like clothes, it just felt wrong on his skin.

Even on a body as hot as his own he must admit the thing flattened or showed everything in the wrong way.

He personally liked red more than green or the shades of blue – a matter of loyalty, simple as that.

But this, seeing him in scrubs was an entire different matter. His eyes couldn't stop wandering up and down, down and up, left and right, taking in the sight of bare arms and just a hint of his sternum.

It shouldn't even happen, he was so flat and thin and too tall – really no fat whatsoever.

But here he was, in scrubs the same as his own and all he wanted to do was to go to him and hug him there and then and poke around a bit.

He tried not to imagine him changing, peeling off layer after layer, folding each neatly, and then pulling on the thin scrubs.

He wondered if he had changed in his office.

He almost preferred seeing him in full attire – even with the waistcoat.

They both scrubbed in for a reason – he'd almost forgotten it - and he watched him move away, into the theatre, waiting for him to hurry up and join and assist him. He would likely end up doing most of the procedure, though, under his watchful eyes. He had this morbid sense of humour and loved reminding him how this hospital was a teaching hospital too, and one should never take away learning opportunities.

As expected, it happened. Once upon a time he would had dropped various equipments before he could even properly use it – sweating and shaking too much and eyes flickering up and down and never truly focusing on the patient - but now they almost worked as a team, a senior consultant and his junior doctor. He even kept the blood splatters to a minimum, that was good enough for him.

While he was busy washing his hands, the doors opened and he stopped beside him and followed suit.

That distinctive cap always caught his attention far more than Sacha's ridiculous flower pattern or the animal camouflage of Ms Campbell. The green shade was a bit similar to the stripe on his backpack.

When he complimented him in that usual, soft tone he almost forgave him for even daring to look so perfect and illegal.

He was basking in the compliment long after he was done and left him, but certainly not in peace.

* * *

They matched again. At least something he could focus on.

He reminded himself not to fumble with the black tie or sit down or pace around likely the largest office of this whole hospital. If he did anything at all he was certain he would wrinkle the carefully ironed suit without even meaning to.

It wasn't the first time he was about to attend a formal event as their plus one. But what differed was _who_ had invited him.

He remembered how his brains froze and spat out rainbows and ice everywhere when he gave him the date and event in that soft, almost monotone – but not boring, never boring anymore, in fact, he always wanted to lean closer and zoom in. The invitation was extended to him, if he wished for it.

The shock and minor panic swirled around in his mind so many seconds that he didn't even realise there was silence between them and he had glanced away then and just when he was beginning to think he had him figured out, at least the outermost layer, this might actually be the moment that he finally messed up and the first step of him retreating and things slowly returning to misunderstandings and hatred and avoidance.

He had never accepted anything with such heat before.

That evening, he didn't feel at ease at first, even when he was by his side. He was likely the youngest person, by far. Everyone reeked of fake smiles and even faker conversations. Even the champagne smelled funny.

Everywhere he looked he saw women and men – but mostly men - people with Christmas bonuses bigger than his yearly salary, a PA that have PA in turn. Every man wore the same, but still he stood out, literally and figuratively. Everything he wore, or did, just clung better on him, and he couldn't help but be sucked in too.

Together, they rocked that evening. They never strayed too far from each other. He made sure to introduce him to the whole lot, even if he knew from himself that he was fodder.

No one knew or recognised him, much less would remember his name, though perhaps his pretty face would haunt them the following days.

He felt like some sort of eye candy, but if it brought more money and patrons, he would even perform a lap dance – it would be the most exciting thing to happen in these dull hours.

It would even be more hilarious to see how he would react to the show. But, well, drastic measures weren't needed, and besides, he had already felt his eyes on him.

* * *

He was reading some fancy medical journal, frowning in silence, sitting on the couch, back straight. He wondered if that frown meant he was already highlighting all the things he could and would do differently, more efficiently, with better results.

He plopped down beside him and always made the mistake of taking a peek and hoping that this time his eyes would see something they like.

Charts, too much text in far too little size. Even the graphic picture could only hold his attention for a few seconds. He'd seen worse, smelled worse, butchered up far worse too.

He unrolled his own magazine and leafed through the latest celeb gossip. He passed a one page big ad of an attractive man posing, showing off his boxers – and so much more. But he barely even paused. He sometimes wondered what he had become.

But then he would only need to focus on the man sitting beside him, turning a page and raising an eyebrow.

He focused on the thick sweater and brown trousers and how well they looked on him – but well, by now he should know that _everything_ he wore was perfect.

Perfect snuggle material too.

He did exactly that. It felt expensive and soft and fuzzy but most importantly it warmed him.

He sometimes wondered if he even knew what kind of effect he had on him.

But then he felt him lean back and used his face to balance the journal on. He saw his frown lessen though before he obscured his view, and certainly didn't miss the smile.

Perhaps he wasn't the only one affected, perhaps he was affected by him too.

Good.

* * *

 _tfw you're in rarepair hell again  
_


End file.
